Part two of four: A Study In Bisquit Pink
We organize military mission of six women, from 10 to 80 years old, and we ambush each and every (and when I say every, believe me it’s every) “formal gown” shop that we can reach within an hour of driving.
When they see us saleswomen pale, crinolines fry, sequins faint…
And my feet hurt “Try this on! Oooh look at that! Have you seen this? And that one? And that one over there? Do you like this one? What about this one instead? Oooh this one, look at it! Try it on!”
I HATE going shopping.
There, I said it.
If I have to buy something I picture what I want (as already explained) I go, I see, I conquer (if I can, if not I go home with nothing). What’s sure is that I won’t be exploring every single thing hanged on every single rack… but I have to put up with it, so…
So the way I cope with these endless journeys (since I do not have the power of vanishing) is by trying on the craziest, most absurd things I can find (hey, I wouldn’t have a chance otherwise!!!). I’ve tried a little one shoulder, high-low skirt, made of royal blue tulle and rayon and plastic crystals, with at least four layers of tulle on the knees going down with a train. I called it the “Dallas dress”
I’ve tried a little pink dress in chiffon and rayon, filled to the brim with plastic rhynestones around the waist and with a stole the length of Windsor.
A semirigid thing that made me look like a blue briefcase.
Something a saleswoman found god knows where, that made me look like a two-weeks-old drowned corpse (same skin colour and a lot of dangling things).
And another thing that looked like Barbie spitted a bubblegum. Strawberry of course.
I know, I have a future in fashion magazines… But the thing is that I have really clear ideas about what I want to wear and what looks good on me.
Anyway we seem to get to a happy ending (as you can see I’m creating a bit of suspance, like creative writing courses tell you to do): my little cousin E. takes the leap and orders a dress on the website our aunts had find, it’s green, with ribbons and flowers and sequins, her fashion-imagination highjumps to heels and earrings and tocado, totally unaware of her mom’s no; aunt L. -we do say she’s the lucky one in the family- finds not one but two Dolce&Gabbana dresses for cheap (and when I say cheap I’m saying that a good pair of shoes costs you more) in a shop near where she lives; my grandma finds two blue dresses since she couldn’t pick, but they’re both the way she liked them (please record her sentence “I could also wear again the dress I had for your mother’s wedding, but this year pleated skirts aren’t in”, gee grandma! I had absolutely no idea you were fashionforward!!!).
But since my aunt C., my mom and me were still out of dress we go.in.to.every.single.shop.in.Serravalle (you might not know what this is: a huge mall for hig end brands, where they always have huge discounts).
And I promise this is not a way to say it, we’ve seen them all.
More than once.
I went home feeling like I’ve worked a 12 hours shift in a foundry, these things kill me.
Anyway, aunt C. falls in love at first sight with a Versace (if I’m not mistaken) orange dress. This way she’ll be forever taunted by me and my brother: we still remember a ridiculous orange tailleur she had when we were little, these are the tremendous legacies of the 80’s and the 90’s.
Mom likes a Moschino dress, sadly there is only that candy-baby-pink colour… Luckily the saleswoman finds another Moschino dress, mom tries it on, she looks awesome, we convince her to buy it because she looks great in it.
Over the phone
Dad “What colour is it?”
aunt C. “Bisquit pink” (my aunt can be heard over the phone even if she’s not the one holding it)
Dad, whispering “Cri”
Dad “What the heck is bisquit pink?”
“Kind of a dark pink, kind of…”
Dad “Can’t we just say dark pink?”
I go home empty handed, because I’m a brat. My mind is stuck on a beautiful purple Missoni dress, too bad purple is not ok ad weddings, it’s jinxing…
We tell the groom to be about all our searchings.
He says “Well, actually purple is ok in Spain”.
(Continues… of course it does, after the groom said that!!!)